


Closure

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, snipe hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-07 09:04:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18407450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: This was written as a sequel to “Moe,” my previous story about Neal’s cat that Peter inherited after the con man escaped federal custody. Eventually, Moe disappeared too, but Peter was able to keep tabs on the wayward feline, which meant he could keep tabs on Neal as well. This is a follow-up venture to make things neat and tidy.





	1. Lights Out

Peter Burke had been a dedicated FBI agent, but also one with a very big secret. Years ago, he had been entrusted with reforming an extraordinary con man and utilizing his talents to solve crimes for the Bureau. It had worked for just a brief interlude. Young Neal Caffrey really didn’t have much of a choice if he wanted to keep himself out of prison so that he could continue to search for the “love of his life.” So, yeah, Peter was well aware that his parolee had an agenda, and that made trust a very big issue. But Peter had fumbled the ball when he jumped on the bandwagon and arrested Neal for a theft he hadn’t masterminded.

It definitely wasn’t Peter’s finest hour, and he had paid a price. He had gained another recalcitrant responsibility—a vindictive black cat named “Moe.” The nasty creature had been Neal’s pet, adopted after an act of mercy. The con man had saved the beast when he was a kitten, and a bond had formed that may as well have been forged in steel. That was all well and good, however, there were very dire consequences on the horizon for Peter.

Moe absolutely abhorred Peter, and a vendetta had blossomed that was as malicious as the feud between the Hatfields and the McCoys. Unfortunately, the stage for that scenario was the Burke home after Peter reluctantly took possession of the animal. When Moe wasn’t terrorizing Peter, he was hell bent on escaping, just like his beloved Neal, who had managed to elude the authorities and disappear from custody. But Peter was just as determined to keep the cat right where Peter wanted him. A sophisticated subcutaneous chip under the feline’s skin allowed Peter insider knowledge about his whereabouts. Eventually, Neal couldn’t seem to tolerate life without his furry friend, so a clandestine catnapping had taken place. Thanks to Peter’s prudent foresight, the FBI agent had gained knowledge of Neal’s whereabouts as well. The dichotomy arose when Peter did nothing about it then or over the lengthening span of the days, weeks, and even months that followed.

~~~~~~~~~~

Almost in the blink of an eye, fifteen years had elapsed like a flipbook in time, with Peter still compulsively doing his secretive recon. Actually, that became the highlight of his days after he had to retire on disability because of a crippling gunshot wound to his leg that left him with a limp. He still did some consulting for the Bureau, but he was no longer active in the field.

Now, from his seat on the sofa, Peter could watch the comforting little blinking dot on his laptop every day, as well as each night, no matter how tired he was. For a time, the tiny blip seemed to take up permanent residence over a small town on the Costa del Sol on the coast of Spain. After almost a decade, it had moved on to Barcelona, and then, finally, it had seemed to hunker down in Madrid. Peter still had Bureau access, so he diligently checked international reports for art heists or museum robberies in those cities, but perhaps Neal had decided to take the high road and had given up his penchant for crime. Peter could only hope that the young and amiable con artist had found peace and contentment in faraway Europe.

Then came the frantic worry when, one day, the little blinking dot had dimmed and then winked out, leaving Peter in the dark. Peter, and especially Elizabeth, fretted over the implications. “Do you think something has happened to Moe?” El asked fearfully. During the cat’s brief hiatus in the Burke household, she had become quite attached to him.

“Try not to get upset, Hon,” Peter pleaded. “Even though the embedded chip is supposed to be able to recharge itself indefinitely, it’s probably just a case of the battery finally dying, not Moe.”

“But we can’t be sure that’s what really happened,” Elizabeth replied worriedly. “It’s been over fifteen years, Peter, so Moe could be the one who died.”

“That’s certainly a definite possibility,” Peter had to agree, “but if he was with Neal, then I’m sure he had a very pampered and full life.”

Peter had been married for a long time, so he and El shared an almost telepathic link. He knew what his wife was going to say even before she ever uttered the words. He valiantly tried to stave off her plea. “The last ping was from Madrid, El, and that’s a huge city. If I went searching for him, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“Well, if I know Neal, he most likely wouldn’t be existing like some needle in a haystack,” Elizabeth argued. “He’s always been bigger than life, and my guess is he’d probably stand out in some way. Maybe instead of Moe, you should start searching for Neal.”

Peter sighed. “You really think I should take myself to Madrid on a whim, Hon? That would probably be akin to a snipe hunt. You can’t find Neal if he doesn’t want to be found,” the former FBI agent said firmly.

“But you could try,” El wheedled. “I mean, it’s not as if you need to be here in New York day after day because you’re tied to a career at the Bureau. You owe it to Neal to let him know that you messed up a long time ago. You need to make amends so there is some closure for everybody.”

“El, Neal created his own closure when he escaped custody and went on the lam,” Peter said as justification. “I can’t see him emotionally pining away for validation, especially at this late date.”

“Peter ….” El said with a frown.

“Fine!” a defeated husband shrugged. “I’ll have to get my passport renewed.

~~~~~~~~~~

When Peter viewed Madrid from the window of his transatlantic flight on a jumbo jet, he realized just how vast the Spanish city was. It was the capital of the European country and, according to Peter’s handy little guide book, it had over six and a half million inhabitants. Talk about a huge haystack! Peter had arranged for a room in what Fodor’s described as a centrally located but moderately priced hotel, and he took a short nap before beginning to formulate any kind of plan to ferret out an escaped criminal and his cat.

It was very tempting to go sightseeing in this intriguing new place, but then Peter tried to rein in that desire. Perhaps the place to start was a more logical one—a place where a very talented artist could swap out his own reproductions for original masterpieces. With that in mind, Peter set out for the Prado Museum, a world-renowned repository of one of the finest collections of European art dating back to the 12th century. Founded in 1819, it contained both paintings and sculpture, and was considered to be one of the greatest museums in the entire world. An art enthusiast could view the works of masters such as Goya, Bosch, El Greco, Rubens, Titian, and Velázquez in a very long afternoon. By closing time, Peter was maxed out on culture, and when he called home to El, it was hard for him to hear the disappointment in her voice.

“I’ll pick up the hunt again tomorrow,” Peter faithfully promised his wife. “This city has a ton of other art venues for me to explore.”

Peter was being accurate when he described the wealth of museums in the city. The Prado was just a part of what had been tagged as The Golden Triangle of Art, which incorporated the nearby Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía and the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza. “Listen to your gut,” Peter reminded himself, so the next day he indulged his intuition by visiting what the locals fondly named _El Reina._ That museum was mainly dedicated to Spanish art created in the 20th century, and housed great masters like Pablo Picasso as well as Salvador Dali. However, it also highlighted other modern and contemporary works by present-day artists.

All the non-stop walking had caused Peter’s previous injury to flare up like a toothache, and his limp became more pronounced. Quite frequently, he had to sit down on a bench inside a gallery, and during one of those rest periods, he became entranced by some intricate canvases on the surrounding walls that were quite intriguing, at least to Peter’s eye. The works were starkly minimalistic in nature, but they were definitely engaging, nonetheless, drawing you in to jagged, distorted coastlines, twisted cityscapes, or fragmented faces staring out into a vast sea of emptiness. Somehow, they seemed familiar, or at least the uniqueness was similar to some of what Neal always swore was just his little hobby created during his downtime. Maybe Peter was simply seeing what his subconscious wanted him to see and he was deluding himself. Nevertheless, Peter looked for a signature and found it down in the righthand corner—a simple name created with a flourish. _Pedro_.

Eventually, Peter managed to waylay an English-speaking docent, and he asked about this modern artist named “Pedro.”

“Ah, you have a discriminating eye, Señor,” she enthused. “Pedro is a very talented and popular contemporary artist but also something of a mystery. No one really knows his true identity, so that adds to his appeal with discriminating collectors. His work began appearing in a nearby gallery about five years ago, and people scooped it up in a heartbeat and clamored for more. Apparently, Pedro produces just a few paintings at a time, and only infrequently allows them to be available for sale. Our museum was fortunate to acquire just these singular pieces when they first came on the market, and our curator considers them to be quite magnificent, as do most of our visitors.”

“Yes, they are quite unique,” Peter agreed.

“Do they perhaps speak to you, Señor?” the docent asked. “Real masterpieces do that—they capture your soul.”

“Yes,” Peter agreed. “In a way, they do speak to me.”

Peter sat for another hour communing with the paintings. If they were Neal’s creations, what was the errant con artist trying to say? Was he attempting to convey his perception of what was now his world—a vast emptiness of broken despair? Or maybe, since the Spanish version of Peter’s name adorned them, was Neal striving to depict Peter’s long ago disjointed and disillusioned view of his CI?

Before leaving the museum, Peter sought out the curator and asked exactly how _Pedro’s_ paintings had initially been obtained. He was told that five years ago, the works had simply appeared in a nearby private gallery right before the artist had become sought after and quite famous.

“I doubt it will be easy to obtain another of the man’s works, but you could certainly ask the owner of that gallery. He may have some insights for you, but don’t get your hopes up,” Peter was warned. “This is the gallery owner’s name—Señor Renacido. I wish you much good fortune in your quest, Señor Burke.”

That night in his hotel room, Peter had a lot to think about. His evening call to Elizabeth succeeded in crystalizing his resolve. El had taken Spanish as a minor in college, and she quickly informed her husband that the gallery owner’s last name— _Renacido_ —roughly translated into English, meant “reborn.”


	2. Chasing an Illusion

The next morning found Peter visiting the gallery owned by someone who perhaps considered himself to be living another incarnation. The small shop was high-end all the way, with oil and watercolor works as well as sculptures and esoteric mobiles hanging from the ceiling. Nothing contained a price tag, and Peter was astonished when he asked about the cost of one tiny etching, and, after using the currency converter on his phone, discovered the price to be up in the stratosphere. He was definitely out of his comfort zone. An attractive young woman currently in charge of the gallery smiled benignly, and asked if there was perhaps another, less expensive piece that was appealing to Peter.

“I’m really not shopping,” he told her quite candidly. “I was just hoping to talk to the owner of this establishment. I believe his name is Señor Renacido,” Peter added, carefully casting his fishing line into the water.

“Que lastima,” the young lady said with a little frown. “Señor Renacido is unavailable right now, and I’m not sure of the date of his return. Was there something you are particularly interested in finding? I can assure you that I can be of service.”

“Well, you see, this is a bit delicate and personal,” Peter coaxed. “I really need to see him face to face.”

When the young salesperson seemed to hesitate, Peter added the coup d’ gras to the stunted discussion—“It’s about the artist named Pedro and the questionable integrity of any of his paintings.”

That seemed to shock the girl, and she reluctantly provided an address for the gallery owner. Peter left the young lady looking worried and unsure if she had done the right thing. The former FBI agent should have felt a little remorse for the intimidation tactics, but he was too invigorated by the hunt to give guilt a second thought.

Peter used a city map to finally wend his way through quiet serpentine streets in a nearby Spanish district. That tedious journey ultimately ended with the quaint discovery of a row of stately whitewashed two-story residences enhanced by vibrant floral plantings along the curb. He approached the door of one such pristine residence, pushed the buzzer, and held his breath. Unfortunately, Peter did not find himself coming face to face with Neal Caffrey. Instead, a beautiful brunette with warm blue eyes opened the door and smiled at him. She was a ringer for a slightly older version of Kate Moreau, so if this Renacido person was Neal, maybe he had a type. However, this woman wasn’t Kate, and she appeared quite welcoming instead of antagonistic and wary.

“Buenos días, te puedo ayudar?” she said charmingly.

“Do you perhaps speak English?” Peter asked.

“Of course,” she smiled. “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Señor Renacido,” Peter quickly answered. “I was under the impression that he lived here.”

“Yes, he does live here, and he is my husband. Did you have business to discuss with him?” the brunette asked curiously.

“Yes, and it’s very long overdue. My name is Peter Burke and I’ve traveled across an ocean to be here. Would you permit me to see him?” a suddenly nervous and unsure former FBI agent asked quietly.

The beautiful lady of the house offered a little Cheshire cat smile and opened the door a bit wider. “Yes, I do believe that you and my husband have some long ago unfinished business that needs to be laid to rest. Please come into our home.”

Peter was astonished by the lady’s graciousness as she led him through a short marble foyer into a fashionable sitting room flooded with natural light that enhanced some magnificent artwork on the walls. She gestured to the comfortable couch and asked if he would like some kind of hot or cold beverage. Peter declined the offer but not before catching sight of two young dark heads peering around the corner into the room. A prepubescent boy and a younger girl were both staring at him with those same aquamarine eyes. Señora Renacido calmly shooed them away with a few words in Spanish before turning her attention back to her guest.

“Our children can be quite curious at times,” she explained, “but perhaps this discussion is not meant for their ears.”

Peter let the silence linger. He had learned that a slight pause sometimes prompted a person to fill it and be more forthcoming. It happened in this instance as his lovely hostess finally spoke up. “Neal always suspected that you would one day arrive on our doorstep, and now, here you are,” she said quietly.

“I’m not here to make trouble for him,” Peter hastened to reassure her. “I just need to let him know certain things, and to straighten out the mistakes that happened along the way during our brief time together. Maybe I just need to reassure myself that he is okay.”

“Please consider yourself reassured,” Señora Renacido said softly. “He is happy, content, and fulfilled in every way that matters. He would tell you that himself if he were here. Unfortunately, he is not.”

Peter’s expression must have looked dubious, causing the hospitable woman to appear sad. “You do not believe that I am telling you the truth?”

“Well, Neal would have every right to want to avoid me,” Peter answered truthfully.

“Perhaps Neal needs this catharsis as much as you do, Señor Burke,” the young woman said the words like a challenge.

“Please, Señora Renacido, just call me, Peter,” her guest said slowly.

“Of course— _Pedro_ ,” she replied as a wry little smile now adorned her lips.

Peter grimaced. “Right—about that,” he waffled, “I’m not quite sure what Neal was intending to convey with that signature tucked in the corner of his work. It’s confusing to me.”

“Perhaps you will have to ask him that yourself,” Neal’s wife said dryly. After another short pause, she added, “My artistic soulmate occasionally needs a bit of isolation when he gets creative and brings his muse out to play. We are fortunate to own a little place by the sea in the tiny village of Port Lligat on the Costa Brava of the Mediterranean Sea. That is where Salvador Dali lived for a time when he went through his Surrealism period, and that is where Neal goes when he is inspired to paint. Perhaps you may wish to make the trip yourself. If so, then just let me say, vaya con dios, Pedro.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter did his research and opted to make the seven hour trek to the small coastal village by train. He was able to rest along the way and arrived somewhat invigorated. He then rented a car and, using directions provided by the rental agent, made his way to a tidy little house on a cliff with a magnificent view of the blue Mediterranean. He found Neal seated on a promontory overlooking a bay with a flotilla of small white boats moored and bobbing in the gentle surf. He had an unfinished canvas before him, and, miraculously, a small black cat was sunning itself on a nearby rock. Neal turned when he heard Peter approach, and his look told Peter that this arrival was not unexpected. No doubt, the artist’s wife had provided a warning of the upcoming confrontation.

“Hello, Peter,” Neal said with a wry smile.

“Hello, Neal. It’s been a while,” Peter answered in return. “Is that really Moe?” Peter wanted to know as he gazed at the furry creature who was suddenly staring back with narrowed eyes and ears lying flat against his sleek head.

“Yep, that’s the same old fellow,” Neal answered fondly.

“It’s been a long time, but it looks as if he’s still harboring a grudge,” Peter replied. “Should I be prepared to start running for my life?”

“Moe’s not as agile as he once was, so I think your jugular is safe. However, he probably could still reach your femoral artery,” Neal teased. “I noticed your limp. Is it still possible for you to run?”

“Maybe not fast enough,” Peter said with some trepidation.

Neal grinned. “Relax, Peter. Moe’s just trying to look menacing. He’s getting older so it’s all about saving face and putting up a bold front. He actually embarrassed himself a short while ago when he managed to miss a branch and fell out of a tree. He looked unhurt, but I still took him to the vet just to be sure nothing was broken. They did some x-rays, and although they didn’t find any fractures, they did discover something else that looked intriguing. They removed a tiny transmitter from his neck. I brought that little gismo home and did what needed to be done. I smashed it with a hammer. So, I’m guessing that brought your little game of voyeurism to an end, once and for all.”

“Neal, I’ll admit that I’ve known where you’ve been for the last decade and a half,” Peter confessed.

“And you’re just getting around to making an appearance now?” Neal seemed astonished.

“Yeah, because when the transmitter stopped working, I was worried about you and even _him_ ,” Peter added as he hooked a reluctant thumb in Moe’s direction. “Of course, it goes without saying that I always had a lot of unanswered questions, like what were you doing and were you with Kate and Mozzie?”

Neal shrugged. “It wasn’t in the cards for Kate and me to be together. She chose a guy named Matthew Keller to be her lover, and I quickly lost track of her. Mozzie, on the other hand, stayed for a bit until he decided to explore other options. He went far afield down to New Zealand where he started his own vineyard. He sends me cases of his vintages quite routinely. But let’s get back to the central question. During the last fifteen years, why didn’t you come at some point to arrest me and have me extradited back to the States. That doesn’t seem to make any kind of sense,” Neal said softly.

“It does make sense, in a twisted kind of way,” Peter began his explanation. “I was wrong when I rushed to judgment about the theft from the Met. I should have believed in you when you claimed it wasn’t your doing. I’m sorry for that—truly sorry, because that caused you to flee and become a fugitive. It wasn’t long before my team and I were on the trail of the real culprits, bad guys deeply embedded in the federal bureaucracy who used paroled felons as scapegoats. It took some time to ferret them out, one by one, and there were a few untouchables in the mix who remained outside our purview for quite a while. I couldn’t bring you home and make you a target, so I let you be. Only El and I ever used the tracking app to find you through Moe, and we never once took anyone else into our confidence.”

“But you’re here today,” Neal said tentatively. “So, what can I expect will happen now that we’ve had our little reunion?”

“Look, Neal, I’m no longer on the government’s payroll. They put me out to pasture after I was wounded in the line of duty. I’m now here of my own volition, and I guess the next move depends on you, Buddy. The statute of limitations is long over for art theft. The senator who had the stolen Rembrandt died of a stroke years ago. The masterpiece is back in the museum where it belongs, so you could return home a free man.”

Neal looked at Peter earnestly, “This is my home now, Peter. I have a life here in Spain—a wonderful wife and two amazing children who are my reasons for living. I never want to leave this existence, not for a minute. Neal Caffrey is gone, and Neal Renacido stepped in to take his place. He’s a good guy, Peter, not a thief or a con man, and he wants to be left in peace. Can you understand that?”

“Yeah, I can,” Peter said softly. “But, since I’ve come all this way, would you answer just one question?”

“I guess,” Neal replied warily.

“Why put a variation of my name on those rare and stupendously expensive paintings that you create?” Peter wanted to know.

Neal ducked his head for minute, and Peter found himself wondering if what would come out of the guy’s mouth would be a lie or the truth. Finally, the artist deigned to answer softly, “I am going to hazard a guess and say that watching where I was, year after year, sort of virtually kept me in your life, Peter. Maybe that was a good thing, or maybe it was just an obsession on your part. I suppose putting your name on my paintings was sort of similar. It was a way for me to keep you connected to my life, as well. Does that sound psychologically screwed up and totally unhealthy?”

Peter smiled fondly, knowing that he had just heard a truthful admission. “Not at all, at least not to me. It seems very comforting and reassuring because maybe that gesture means that somehow I managed to impact your life in a good way and you didn’t want to forget about me either.”

“I guess I can live with that!” Neal smiled in return. “Do you want to come down to my little cottage and share some good Spanish wine?”

“Do you have any beer?” Peter asked hopefully.

Neal grimaced. “Sadly, no. I’ll just have to educate your palate with some very fine _Solar de Labano,_ a bold red with high levels of tannins as a result of being stored for several years in oak barrels.”

“If you say so,” Peter groused as his followed Neal down the hill while Moe ominously trailed not far behind. The loyal little cat reasoned that his old nemesis was now on Moe’s home turf, and he wasn’t about to let the interloper out of his sight for a minute!


End file.
